


Goodnight Moon and Red Balloons

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: Gifted (2017)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Ill Kid, Kid Fic, Slightly upsetting hospital scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: Roberta can spot a runner a mile off.Over the years, she's seen all sorts.  Women running away from scumbag husbands.  Men running away from their responsibilities.  Kids running away from their parents who were too strict or not strict enough, not around or around too damn much.This white boy sitting in her kitchen asking to rent one of her apartments is a runner, no doubt about it.  But just what kind of a runner, she isn't sure.Or, how Roberta Taylor adopted a lost white boy and his baby niece.





	Goodnight Moon and Red Balloons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwyneth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/gifts).



Roberta can spot a runner a mile off.

Over the years, she's seen all sorts. Women running away from scumbag husbands. Men running away from their responsibilities. Kids running away from their parents who were too strict or not strict enough, not around or around too damn much.

This white boy sitting in her kitchen asking to rent one of her apartments is a runner, no doubt about it. He's got the twitchy eyes, the tight shoulders. But just what kind of a runner, she isn't sure. There are the clothes for a start: chinos that are a bit nicer than you generally see in this neighbourhood, paired with a t-shirt that's a bit worse, with a worn-out neck splotches of baby spit up down the front. There's the accent. She can hear Boston, or maybe New York, in his voice, but filed down enough that she figures he's got a good education behind him.

Then there's the baby.

This white boy, Mr. Frank Adler of no fixed address, with no references to speak of, is holding an adorable, blonde baby girl as if he's scared of both holding her too tightly and hurting her, and of not holding her tightly enough and letting her fall.

"Will your wife be joining you, Mr. Adler?" Roberta asks, a not-so-subtle ploy to get to the bottom of the boy's story.

"Call me Frank. And, um, no, I'm not married."

"Your girlfriend, then?"

"No girlfriend either. I'm single."

He doesn't explain any further, so Roberta gives up on subtlety completely.

"Well, if you don't mind my saying, I don't think your daughter spontaneously generated without a mother."

Adler…no, Frank, looks down as if he's just noticed he's holding a baby who's trying to chew a new hole into the shoulder of his ratty t-shirt and leaving a trail of drool behind her.

"Oh. No. Mary's not…I mean, she's my niece." 

"Your niece?" Roberta doesn't mean to sound sceptical, but it's an odd situation.

"My sister's daughter. I'm her uncle. And…her guardian."

He looks shell-shocked. Like he doesn't quite no how this happened. Like he's not sure what he's doing, but he's going to look after this baby girl anyway.

Roberta doesn't know what happened to the sister, but she suspects it's nothing good. 

"Where are you working?"

"Nowhere, yet. I want to get settled with Mary first." He bounces the baby in his arms. "Is that a problem?" He looks worried. He should be worried. Most landlords won't take on a tenant with no job. Especially not a single parent who looks like he doesn't know what he's doing. Roberta is a small businesswoman. She needs to look out for herself.

But then the baby looks at her and smiles and makes that adorable gurgling baby sound.

Roberta sighs. There's a reason she's still stuck in this one-horse town, renting her little apartments. She's a sucker for lost boys and babies. She's a sucker for runners. The right kind of runner, anyway.

"I've heard all I need to, Frank."

"Oh." His face falls, like he's been expecting disappointment and sees it heading toward him.

"I need first and last month's rent and a security deposit." He looks at her like a confused Golden Retriever. "The apartment's yours," she clarifies. "If you want it."

"Oh!" 

She finally gets a smile out of him. 

Roberta can spot a runner a mile off, but she can also spot trouble. And this boy, with his cute baby niece and his puppy dog eyes, is trouble with a capital T.

She's going to regret this. She just knows it.

* * *

She watches over them for the first three months, Frank Adler and his baby niece, Mary. She tells Frank the best market to go to, where he can stretch his dollar the furthest but still get decent food. Which pharmacy is open all night for when you're out of diapers or baby Tylenol. 

One morning she notices the dark circles under his eyes and Mary's fussiness, and tells him how you can stick a wet washcloth in the freezer for a teething baby to chew on. They're both a lot happier the next time she sees them.

Another day she notices Frank sneezing his way to his car, his eyes red and swollen, Mary squirming in his arms. She marches Frank back to his place, installs him on his couch, gives him her emergency stash of Nyquil and chicken soup, and takes Mary for the night. Frank has just enough energy left to tell her where the diaper bag is, and to insist she bring Mary's stuffed orange cat and her battered copy of Goodnight Moon before he passes out. She's glad he managed that much when Mary insists on being read the book five times before she'll settle, and falls asleep with her cat clutched in one hand. When he's feeling better, two days later, Frank insists on doing chores to thank her. She finally has him weed the garden, Mary plopped beside him, happily playing in the dirt.

Frank Adler is a good guy. He pays his rent on time. He looks after his niece. And he's always willing to help out Roberta when she needs to move something heavy or to reach something high.

Bit by bit, day by day, Roberta sees the tension in his shoulders relax. She gets hopeful that this lost white boy has found his way.

Then one morning, there's a knock on her door.

It's early. Her alarm's just gone off and the sun's barely up and she's only had the light on in the kitchen for thirty seconds, hasn't even got the coffee maker started yet. She standing there in her old sweat pants and the t-shirt she sleeps in and feels her stomach lurch, her fists clench, because knocks at the door too early or too late are almost always bad news.

She turns, half-expecting to see police through the screen door, ready to tell her there's been a death or an accident or an arrest on her property. (None of those things happen often, but they happen.) Instead, she sees Frank holding Mary in his arms. She relaxes for all of a second, thinking maybe Frank just needs to borrow some milk or some eggs, not even thinking of why he'd be up so early when she usually doesn't see him and the baby up and around until long after the sun's risen. But then she sees the panic in his eyes and her stomach lurches again, much worse than before.

"Mary's sick," he blurts out when she opens up the door. "Really sick. She's been throwing up all night. She can't keep anything down. Not formula, not Pedialyte, not anything." He holds the baby out to her, like he's expecting her to have the answers, to tell him everything's all right and he just needs to calm down.

But everything isn't all right. Mary looks listless. She's trying to cry, but her face is dry, like she's got no tears left. As Roberta watches, Mary's body convulses, and Frank gets her to the sink in time for her to throw up, a thin dark stream of liquid that looks more like bile than baby food or formula.

"Frank," she says, pitching her voice low and clear, speaking slowly so she cuts through the panic she can see building up in the boy. "We've got to get Mary to the hospital. You go get her diaper bag and Orange Cat. I'll take Mary, get her comfortable and meet you at your car."

He stares at her for a few seconds, swallowing around his fear.

"I, um, I don't have any health insurance."

His eyes are wide and blinking too fast, and the way he's panicking about this, she can tell it's not something he's ever had to deal with before, so yeah, she figures she was right about him having a good education and a nice family up north wherever it is he comes from. And she wonders for a brief second just what it is that's driven him to her little corner of Florida. But then she turns her mind to what really matters.

"The local hospital won't care about insurance if there's a sick baby involved. Go."

He shakes off his panic, gently hands Mary to her, and flees, the screen door slamming behind him. Mary barely registers Roberta's presence, snuggling against her shoulder and making a piteous whining sound.

"Let's get you feeling better, baby girl," Roberta says, hefting Mary in her arms. 

She puts a couple of old towels she doesn't care about over her shoulder. Then she grabs a stainless steel mixing bowl from the kitchen, toes on her shoes, locks the house up behind her and heads for Frank's place. Frank's stuffing the diaper bag into the trunk of his car, and opens the back door so Roberta can get Mary settled in her car seat. He hands Roberta Orange Cat and looks at the bowl she puts on the seat. 

"Trust me, you don't want baby puke in your car," Roberta says.

They get Mary buckled in, then Roberta gives Frank a long, examining look.

"You okay to drive, Frank?"

He looks like ten miles of bad road, worse even than he did the week Mary's teething had kept him up three nights straight, almost as bad as when he was sick himself, his skin pale and his eyes red. But then he clenches his jaw and straightens his shoulders.

"I'm fine," he says, and if she doesn't believe him, at least he looks capable of doing what has to be done.

"Then let's get this little girl to the hospital."

Frank drives, and Roberta sits in the back with Mary, holding her pudgy little hand, and getting the bowl in place when she throws up. Which she does twice in the twenty-minute drive. God is with them and they find an actual legal parking spot right in front of the hospital and dash into Emergency, Roberta leading the way, and Frank holding Mary like she's everything in the world to him. The triage nurse, a sweet Cuban boy with kind eyes, doesn't even make them sit in the waiting room, immediately sending them back into the warren of cubicles and treatment rooms that make up any emergency ward.

Another nurse sees them right away, this one a no-nonsense middle-aged woman with skin as dark as Roberta's, who takes Mary's history from Frank and then records her vitals. Frank may be panicked, but he answers all the questions. He's even brought Mary's vaccination card in the diaper bag. The nurse clucks over Mary's vitals, and tells them to wait a minute, and reappears in no time with a doctor. The doctor, a white man about Roberta's age, asks Frank more questions as he examines Mary. He's calm and professional, but Roberta can tell he doesn't like what he sees.

"Is she going to be okay?" Frank finally asks. The question any parent would want answered.

"Mary has a stomach bug. I'm betting the bug itself isn't that dangerous, but babies dehydrate fast, and Mary is a very dehydrated and very sick little girl."

Frank goes white and clutches Mary in his lap.

"But will she be okay?"

The doctor nods.

"She should ride it out in a day or two. We just need to get her fluids and electrolytes up."

"She can't keep anything down." Frank's eyes are desperate.

"We're going to hook her up to an IV. I'll send you up to the pediatrics ward, Mr. Adler. They'll have Mary fixed up in no time." 

So they take the admitting slip the doctor gives them and follow the light blue line on the floor that leads to the elevator, then to the pediatrics ward, Frank soothing Mary in his arms, Roberta beside him carrying his bag.

The nurses must have been warned to expect them because they're swept into a treatment room as soon as they arrive. There's a children's pain specialist, set to distract Mary with rattles and stuffed toys from what they're going to do to her . And there are two nurses with an equipment tray set up. They get Frank to hold Mary as they swab the back of her hand and the pain specialist diverts Mary's attention with a giant rattle and lets her hold Orange Cat with her free hand.

To say it doesn't go well is a huge understatement.

The doctor told them Mary is dehydrated. What he didn't tell them is that means her already tiny veins have collapsed, and every time the nurse inserts the needle, the vein rolls away from her. Mary screams, Frank goes more and more stone-faced, the nurses get more and more frantic, and the pain specialist finally flees when it's clear none of her toys or stuffies is making a damn bit of difference to Mary. Finally, as Mary sobs in Frank's arms, the nurses get into a huddle and make a phone call. Then they wait.

Less then a minute later, the door opens on another nurse. She's older than all the other nurses, her hair a tight grey afro, her movements sharp and no nonsense. Her gaze takes in the room, the other nurses, the crying baby, the distressed uncle, and she sighs.

"Oh, for goodness sake," she says.

She puts on a fresh pair of gloves, grabs the tray of IV equipment, and takes a firm hold of Mary's hand. Before Roberta can blink twice, she's got the IV in. Mary stops screaming with a surprised hiccup, and Frank's shoulders relax just a bit. 

"There you go, baby girl," the nurse says, patting Mary's back, then wrapping her hand around a Styrofoam block with sticky webbed dressing she says is usually for burns, but is good for keeping babies from pulling out IV lines.

"Ladies," she says to the other nurses, then sweeps out of the room before any of them can thank her.

Tension seeps out of the room like air from punctured tire, leaving everyone flat and drained. The nurses shake themselves and get Mary settled in a proper room, the other bed empty. Frank doesn't leave her side, doesn't break his hold on Mary's hand, even as the nurses bustle around setting up the O2 monitor and explaining where the call button is. Then they tell them they'll check on them in 20 minutes and leave them alone.

Mary settles into bed, snuggling Orange Cat, watching her uncle until her eyes gradually drift shut. Frank watches over her, hyper-focused in spite of his own exhaustion.

He finally notices Roberta watching him, and lifts his head to face her.

"I can't let anything happen to her," he says, sticking his chin out. "I just can't."

"And you won't. You're a good man, Frank Adler." She stands up and pats his head. "But I think you're a good man in need of coffee."

"Thank you, Roberta. For everything."

Roberta leaves the room, but she doesn't head down to the cafeteria. Not yet. Because if Frank won't let anything happen to Mary, then Roberta's not going to let anything happen to Frank. And in spite of the fact that she knows this hospital will treat any child who's in need of care, the piper is going to have to be paid at some point. At least she can make sure the piper's price isn't going to wipe Frank out.

First she heads to the nursing station. Once they understand the situation, the nurses tell her they'll let what charges they can let slide in their paperwork. Then she goes to the billing office. Nancy from her church works there, and when Roberta tells her about Frank and Mary, she promises to set up a payment schedule that won't cripple a single man raising a baby with no apparent means of support. 

By the time she gets back to the room with two cups of coffee and a couple of stale-looking muffins, Frank has finally fallen asleep, twisted in an uncomfortable hospital chair in a way that will put a crick in his neck for sure. Roberta doesn't wake him, just watches over them both, all too aware of how responsible she now feels for these two souls.

* * *

Mary's in the hospital for 24 hours. When she arrives back home with Frank, she's the same bubbly baby Roberta's gotten used to seeing around the property, the only sign of what she's gone through being the teddy bear Band Aid on the back of her hand where the IV had been, and the fact that she won't let either Frank or Orange Cat out of her sight.

Frank, though. Frank's changed. He seems more determined, a man who's survived disaster and realized he's stronger than he thought.

He starts coming over to Roberta's place in the mornings, bouncing Mary on his knee as they drink coffee and shoot the breeze. He's become more than a tenant she keeps an eye out for. He's become a friend.

He doesn't share everything with her, though. She still has no idea what happened to Mary's mother, doesn't know why he's ended up in Florida. She doesn't tell him everything either. She doesn't tell him about the lost husband and lost dreams, doesn't tell him how she used to aspire to more than being a landlady. But that's okay. Friends can have secrets from each other.

Two weeks after their trip to the hospital, Frank shows up at her place with Mary on one hip and an envelope with the hospital's name on it in the other hand.

"So." Frank plays with the envelope without saying a word about it.

"So?" Roberta raises an eyebrow at him.

"Seems like I need a job."

"I hope you aren't asking me to hire you. I can barely pay myself with what all of you deadbeats pay in rent."

"No! I wasn't…just, no."

"Then what are you asking?"

"I was wondering if you know anyone around here who needs help."

"Couldn't you just do whatever it was you used to do? I assume you did have a job before you landed on my doorstep."

Frank gets the crooked smile on his face she's been seeing a lot more of lately, his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners.

"No, Roberta. Trust me when I tell you that no one here is going to pay me to do what I used to do."

"Well, then. What _can_ you do?"

"I can fix things."

"Oh, really?"

"Oh, really. I took a lot of shop in high school. Bought myself an old clunker of a sports car when I got my license and kept it running until my senior year. If something's got an engine in it, I can fix it."

"Forgive me for not believing you, but you do _not_ look like the sort of guy who took shop class in high school."

Frank grins at her.

"Yeah, well, I'll tell you a secret. I only took it because it pissed Evelyn off."

"Evelyn?"

"My mom. It _really_ pissed my mom off. Except then it turned out I was pretty good with engines."

Roberta wonders what sort of family Frank comes from, that he calls his mother Evelyn and wanted to piss her off. What kind of job he used to do that he can't do here in Florida. But she doesn't dwell on any of that. What's important is finding this boy a paycheck.

"Well, Mr. Pretty Good with Engines. I think I just might know of a job for you."

* * *

A couple of weeks ago, Bobby down at the marina had been complaining about how hard it was to find someone reliable to fix boats. The last guy he'd found had flaked out three times in a month and some of the boat owners were complaining. Roberta introduces him to Frank, and before the end of the day, Frank's already fixed a water pump in a speed boat and a leaky fuel line in a small trawler.

According to Bobby, Frank takes to repairing boats like he was born to it. He works fast, he charges enough but not too much, and between word of mouth and the flyers he's stuck up at a few local marinas, he's soon making enough to pay off the hospital and get by.

But he can't bring a baby to a marina. So, when Frank's out doing repairs, Mary stays with Roberta. Which absolutely is not a hardship. Roberta's got loads of family, nieces and nephews and cousins for miles, but Mary is the sweetest child she's ever known, and smart as a whip. She's not even close to walking, but her babbling has already started turning into words.

While Roberta does her chores around the house, Mary is quite happy to crawl around the living room dragging Orange Cat behind her, paging through the stack of picture books Roberta now brings back from the library every week or building stacks of blocks as high as her arms will reach. 

But as soon as Roberta's done with the laundry or the vacuuming, Mary will give her a sunny smile and tell her "'Berta, 'Berta, 'Berta! Music!" And Roberta will break out Tina Turner and Etta James and Aretha, and dance Mary around the living room. Or Mary will say "'Berta, bake!" And Roberta will pull out the butter and her mixing bowl and whip up a batch of cookies, letting Mary sprinkle the chocolate chips into the batter and looking the other way when she stuffs a handful into her mouth.

Today, she's finished dusting, and she and Mary are dancing to Tina's Proud Mary, when Frank comes back.

"How was my girl today?" he asks as he lifts Mary up in the air, twirling her around.

"I be good," Mary says.

"Good as gold," Mary agrees with a nod, and chucks Mary under her chin. "And sharp as a tack."

"That's my girl," Frank says, and gives Mary a hug. Then he turns to Roberta, those blue eyes hidden by his ridiculous lashes, his shoulders slouched and his expression shyer than she's come to expect from him. "Roberta, could I ask you for a favour?"

"Anything, Frank."

"Tomorrow's Mary's birthday, and I'd like to have a little party, but, well, you're the only person I really know here, and…" He trails off.

Roberta crosses her arms and gives him a look like he's the most foolish man he's ever met.

"Frank Adler, inviting me to Mary's birthday party is not asking _me_ for a favour. If that's what you're doing. And I would be honoured to come."

Frank smiles, Mary's face lights up, and Roberta puts on Chain of Fools so they can all dance around the living room.

* * *

Friday afternoon, Roberta puts on her favorite dress and wraps up Mary's present (a bucket of Duplo and a copy of The Snowy Day) and knocks on Frank's door at exactly four o'clock.

She's used to seeing Mary in t-shirts and overalls, and Frank in his ratty t-shirts, stained with the same boat grease that now seems permanently embedded in his fingernails. But today, Mary is wearing a yellow polka dot party dress with a matching bow in her hair, and Frank has on a pair of his nice chinos and a blue button-down shirt that matches his eyes. He's even managed to get his fingernails almost clean.

Mary squeals when she sees her and throws her hands in the air.

"'Berta! Happy Bir-day!"

"I'm supposed to say that to you, baby girl." Roberta hands Frank Mary's present and picks Mary up. "Happy Birthday, Mary," she says, and gives her a big hug and a kiss.

"Thanks for coming, Roberta." Frank beams at her.

It's a quiet party, just the three of them. They play pin the tail on the donkey. Frank holds Mary for her turn and makes sure she pins the tail in exactly the right place. They dance to Etta James, throwing the balloons Frank blew up for the party (red balloons, just like in Goodnight, Moon) at each other. And Frank's made Mary's favorite meal, mac and cheese from scratch, with an ice cream cake for dessert.

It's a perfect day.

But all things must come to an end, even perfect days. Mary's eyes start to droop shut, even as she insists she's "not sleepy." Roberta gets her ready for bed while Frank cleans up the kitchen. By the time Frank joins them in Mary's bedroom for the nightly reading of Goodnight Moon, her breath is evening out, Orange Cat clutched in one hand. Mary doesn't even make it to "three little bears sitting on chairs" before she's completely out, but Frank reads all the way to "Goodnight noises everywhere" anyway.

Frank drops a kiss on Mary's forehead, smoothing her hair down, his touch infinitely gentle as he looks down on his niece.

"She's got your eyelashes," Roberta says.

"She got those from Diane," he says. "My sister," he adds.

This is the first time he's even mentioned the name of Mary's mother. Roberta resists the urge to pounce on Frank, to insist he tell her everything he can about the woman whose absence brought them to Roberta's door. Instead, she follows Frank to the kitchen, accepting an offered beer and joining him outside on the battered lawn chairs he'd rescued from God knew where. She holds the bottle, condensation forming on its surface in the early evening heat. There's the murmur of a television from Murray's apartment across the way, and the rattle of the breeze stirring the leaves over their heads.

Frank looks as relaxed as she feels, so she decides to push a little.

"What's she like? Your sister?"

Frank doesn't answer right away. He tips his head back and takes a long swallow of beer, but at least he doesn't bolt, and he doesn't close down. 

"Smart," he finally says. "Diane was the smartest person I've ever met." That past tense confirms what Roberta's long suspected. "And I've met more than a few really smart people."

"Mary takes after her mother, then. Smart as a whip, that child."

Frank grimaces.

"For her sake, I hope she's not quite as smart as her mom."

"Frank Adler, why would you say that?" Because in Roberta's family, you hope your children are as smart as possible. Smart enough to outfox whatever life might throw at them.

Frank doesn't say anything at first, just stares off into the distance, beer bottle clutched tightly in one hand. But then he takes a deep breath, and looks Roberta straight in the eye.

"Diane killed herself." His deep voice cracks at the edges of those words.

Roberta takes in a sharp breath. That's not what she expected. She's assumed Mary's mother was dead since Frank turned up, but she'd thought it might have been cancer. Or an accident. Maybe even an accidental overdose. She's never even considered it might have been suicide.

"I'm sorry, Frank," she says, not because it's the right thing to say, but because it's the only thing she can think to say.

"Me, too," Frank says, and then he carefully puts his beer bottle down on the ground, and he gingerly wraps his arms around his ribs, as if he's trying to keep himself from shattering. 

She doesn't push him further, doesn't ask why on earth a smart young woman with a baby would have killed herself. She knows how life is. She knows that some people will bend, and others will break, and you never know which kind you are until the darkness finds you. 

She reaches out, lays a hand on his shoulder. He tenses for a moment, as if he can't bear the touch, but when all she does is rub circles on his back, like she does to Mary when she won't settle for a nap, she feels his muscles relax under her fingers.

She doesn't tell him it'll be all right. They both know that's not always true. She doesn't say a damn word. She just rubs his back until he uncoils his arms from around himself, until his hands stop shaking enough that he can pick up his beer again and drain it. Then she goes back into his kitchen and gets two more beers, one for each of them, and they sit side by side, listening to the chittering of insects and the chattering of the distant television, taking this time to be with each other.

When Frank hands her a third beer of the night, two more than she's used to having, she finally speaks again, the alcohol giving her the courage she needs.

"Have you told Mary about her mother?"

"No!" Frank looks stung, like she's betrayed him.

"Not how she died. You'll have to do that sometime, but not now. Have you told her how her mother lived? What she was like? Because that little girl is going to wonder about her mother, and you're the only one who can let her know the kind of woman she was."

Frank clutches the beer bottle in both hands and looks down, those long lashes he shares with his niece hiding his eyes.

"I was wrong," Frank says without looking up.

"Wrong?"

"Diane wasn't the smartest person I've ever met." He turns to her, and she can see his eyes glistening in the dark. "You are."

"Go on," Roberta says, giving his arm a shove, feeling her own eyes prickle with unshed tears.

Frank shoves her back, the faint hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

"Don't you cry, Roberta. You do that, then I'll have to pretend to cry. And then where will we be?"

"You're a horrible man, Frank Adler. But you're good for that little girl." She stands and gives him a quick hug. 

"Thanks."

"And now I've got to call it a night before I have another beer I'll regret. Goodnight, Frank."

"Goodnight, Roberta," Frank says, his smile getting just a bit wider. "Goodnight, moon," he says to the night, and takes a swig of his beer.

"Goodnight, red balloon," Roberta replies, then makes her careful way back to her place. She makes sure to take aspirin and drink a big glass of water, and falls asleep to the memory of Mary's laughter and Frank's half smile.

* * *

Roberta wakes up the next morning with only the hint of a hangover and the need to bake. She takes the butter out to soften while she showers, and begins mixing up cookie dough as soon as she finishes breakfast. It's comforting work, creaming the butter and sugar together, adding eggs and vanilla, putting her muscle into mixing in the flour and chocolate chips.

Then she sits at the table and drinks her coffee, letting the kitchen fill with the smell of baking cookies as she considers everything she's grateful for: a roof over her head, enough food in her pantry, and a lost white boy and his niece in her life.

When the cookies are cooled, she puts half of them on a plate and covers them with foil, because baking is for sharing, after all, and Mary will be really annoyed if she finds out Roberta made cookies without her and didn't bring her any.

When she knocks on his door, Frank is sitting at his kitchen table, looking a little worse for wear, a mug of coffee clutched in one hand. Mary's in her high chair, a slice of apple clutched in one chubby hand. They both smile at her as she comes through the door, and smile wider when she puts the plate of cookies on the table.

"How does everyone feel about chocolate chip cookies as a post-birthday breakfast?" Frank asks, and even Roberta has to agree that's an excellent idea. So they have cookies, and they teach Mary how to toast with the chocolate milk in her sippy cup, and it's the best Saturday morning Roberta has had in a long time.

Best of all, Roberta notices that Frank doesn't look like a runner anymore. Instead, he looks like someone who's finally found a home. And Roberta is more satisfied than she can say that home seems to be right here.


End file.
